


Worries and Promises

by detectivejigsaw



Series: Season of the Bruja [1]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Angst, Ernesto sucks, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Imelda is a mama bear, Woobie Hector, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 00:34:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16587314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detectivejigsaw/pseuds/detectivejigsaw
Summary: A little drabble thanks to my recently becoming a "Coco" addict.  Hector's thoughts and fears after he's been saved from disappearing, with a little bit of Imelda at the end.  Feels like it could become a bigger story, which I am open to suggestions for, but for now I'm stuck because it seems like so many people have written good ones in this vein.  Comprende?Hope everything is more or less in character.





	Worries and Promises

For the first time in more than ninety years, things were going well for Héctor Rivera.

He was no longer in any danger of being Forgotten.

He was back home with his family,* with a hope of seeing his daughter again soon and being allowed to tell her how much he’d missed her.

He could play music without pangs of guilt and pain, and with his family’s approval.

 

There was, however, a small blight on the fields of his happiness.

You can probably guess what it was.

I’ll give you a hint: it started with a capital E, and had become synonymous among both the living and the dead with “backstabbing, murdering bas...ketcase.”

That’s right, señors and señoritas-Ernesto de la Cruz.

* * *

He hadn’t bothered the Riveras since he had been exposed as the fraud he was, but his absence only made Héctor more nervous.  Ernesto had shown just how vindictive he could be, what with literally murdering his best friend for a song. It was highly possible that he might want revenge on the man who had taken his fame away by exposing the truth.  Or, more worrying in Héctor’s book, revenge on the little  _ chamaco _ who had also been involved.

It wasn’t overly reassuring to know that Miguel was in the Land of the Living, where he would probably stay for a good long time; Ernesto had shown himself willing to be methodical about committing murder,** so he was probably willing to wait before enacting vengeance.  Or maybe he’d find some way of getting to the living world, or bringing Miguel to this one...the possibilities were endless in Héctor’s imagination. Not knowing where his erstwhile friend was so he could keep an eye on him only made him more nervous.

 

While he wasn’t actively searching for Ernesto, he did keep his ear open*** for any news of where he was, but it seemed that he had gone very deep underground.  He hadn’t even shown up in Shantytown, which Héctor still visited on a regular basis and was trying to get help for, now that he had a better standing in society.

All his old friends had given promises to keep an eye out for de la Cruz (along with a few decidedly vindictive and creative ideas for what should be done if they did find him), so he tried to relax and remind himself of all the reasons why he didn’t need to worry.  Even if Ernesto dared come near him, there were literally hundreds of thousands of people with an axe to grind supporting Héctor. And they were both already dead, so Ernesto couldn’t kill him again, and neither of them was in danger of being forgotten anytime soon. There was virtually nothing de la Cruz could do to him, unless he threw him down a sinkhole again, and Pepita would (probably) come and rescue him.  And unless there was a passage between worlds that he didn’t know about, Miguel was safe too. Everything would be fine.

...Right?

* * *

His favorite promise had come (naturally) from Imelda.

He hadn’t wanted to tell her about his worries; he didn’t want her to think he was weak or that he was worrying about things that weren’t important.  But he did want her to trust him again, whatever it took. So when she’d asked him what was bothering him, he had admitted his fears about Ernesto trying to take revenge on him or Miguel, or both.

Her eyes had instantly narrowed into slits, and her fists had clenched.

“If he comes near anyone in this family ever again,” she said slowly, “I promise that I will personally take him apart, bone by bone.  Then I will put all the bones in tiny glass jars, and disperse all the jars through the Land of the Dead, so he can never, ever,  _ ever _ be reassembled.”

Héctor’s jaw had flapped, before he managed to say with a weak smile, “You’re so sweet.”

Imelda rolled her eyes, but she smiled at him fondly and took his hand, the bones fitting together just as well as flesh and muscle had.   
  


It helped more than anything else he’d tried, so whenever he felt the worry rising up, he would go to Imelda.  And she never brushed him off or told him he was being ridiculous for worrying; she would just hold him and do what she could to help him feel safe.

Such as paying visits to the Department of Family Reunions and demanding, with increasing stridency, that they  _ do something _ to locate de la Cruz.

Such as placing Pepita on guard duty outside their home when the family was resting.

Such as keeping her boots ready for throwing or smacking.****

It was the least she could do for the love of her life.

* * *

*After he’d narrowly escaped the Final Death, he had figured the Riveras would want nothing more to do with him, and began to take his leave once he was strong enough; Imelda had immediately informed him that she had no intention of letting him go ever again, and if he did not cease this behavior at once she would beat him to within an inch of his afterlife with her  _ chancla _ .

**Of all the ways he could have used to kill Héctor, Ernesto had chosen to poison him, with poison that he just  _ happened  _ to be carrying around.  A comparatively slow, cold-blooded death.  There was nothing that could convince the musician that Ernesto hadn’t been planning to kill him for a long, long time, as horrific a thought as it was.

***Figuratively speaking, of course, since he no longer had ears.

****Not that they ever hadn’t been.


End file.
